


Taller Than God

by Saucery



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Hint: it isn't), Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Awkwardness, Banter, Barely Legal, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Character Study, Class Differences, Companionable Snark, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cross-Generational Friendship, Crushes, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Downey!Tony, Drama, Dubious Science, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Happy Ending, Holland!Peter, Inaccuracies, Jealousy, Laboratories, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Mentors, Nerdiness, Non-Canonical Age, Oblivious Peter, Or Is It?, POV Peter, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Press and Tabloids, Pseudoscience, Psychoanalysis, Rebound Relationship, Research, Romance, Sassy Peter, Science Boyfriends, Self-Doubt, Superheroes, Teenagers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 08:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10184888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: Peter pines. Little does he know that Tony is pining, too.Set afterCivil War. Canon-compliant except for the fact that Peter is eighteen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPHf81KpZis) song.
> 
> I know absolutely nothing about science, so I’ve pulled most of Peter’s and Tony’s scientific discussions out of my ass. My apologies to any actual scientists reading this story. Please be warned that the inaccuracies therein might cause you literal, physical pain. Here, have some Tylenol. You’ll need it.

* * *

 

The Avengers were back together, the planet hadn’t been conquered by aliens or evil organizations, and Peter was beginning to wonder if he was living in a fairytale.

Yeah. A fairytale.

Peter was pretty sure he’d gone the color of a beetroot when Mr. Stark had told Aunt May that Peter was “brilliant” and “indispensable” and had whisked Peter away to Stark Tower in a yellow Lamborghini. Peter had tried not to feel like Cinderella, because then he’d start to think of Mr. Stark as his Prince Charming, and that way lay dangerous territory. Unattainable territory. Because Mr. Stark was so out of Peter’s league he may as well be from a distant galaxy.

Mr. Stark wasn’t interested in Peter because of _Peter_. He was interested in Peter because of Spider-Man, and because of Peter’s brain. He probably considered Peter’s brain in the same league as his Lamborghini—a high-performance machine he could both use and show off. It was no secret that Mr. Stark liked acquiring things that went fast. And Peter’s brain went really, really fast.

It was usually on Avengers business that Mr. Stark visited Peter, but not always. Frequently, it was for no justifiable excuse that Peter could discern. According to the story Mr. Stark had sold to Aunt May, Peter’s research grant included special dispensations that led him to being effectively cherry-picked by Stark Industries. Basically—and this was the official spiel—Mr. Stark was providing Peter with professional mentorship. That was why Mr. Stark often sent chauffeured cars to pick Peter up, or dropped by to pick Peter up himself.

Which was kind of a big deal, having Iron Man drop in for bad coffee and worse food (Aunt May’s cooking was a weapon of mass destruction), his silk shirts and sly winks as out of place in the Parkers’ tiny apartment as they were fatal for Peter’s common sense. Those winks were enough to make Peter forget, temporarily, that he was just one of Mr. Stark’s approximately five million side-projects, and that Mr. Stark wouldn’t be wasting time hanging out with a kid from Queens if it wasn’t for his highly publicized breakup with Pepper Potts.

Not that Mr. Stark hanging out with Peter every two weeks or so meant that Peter was at all filling the gaping maw Ms. Potts’ absence had torn open in Mr. Stark’s life. That much was obvious from the constant strain that added to the wrinkles on Mr. Stark’s brow, and the despair Mr. Stark mostly hid under sharp smiles and jagged laughs. He was skilled at hiding it, so skilled that he had almost everyone fooled, but given that Peter watched him like a hawk on account of harboring an embarrassingly mammoth crush on him, Peter could spot the rare cracks in Mr. Stark’s armor. His metaphorical armor, that is, not the solid stuff built of metal.

To Peter, Mr. Stark was a sort of reverse superhero, because his identity was public knowledge, but nothing else was. All the partying and flirting and pseudo-megalomania was Mr. Stark’s true armor—the armor Mr. Stark wore on the inside, protecting him from others, concealing who he was.

The world knew that Iron Man was Tony Stark. But they didn’t know that Tony Stark wasn’t Iron Man. Tony Stark wasn’t even Tony Stark. He was someone else, someone Peter only caught glimpses of in the dark glimmer of Mr. Stark’s eyes, when Mr. Stark stood alone on his balcony in Stark Tower, whiskey in hand, gazing at the New York skyline.

That was the person who made Peter’s pulse catch and skip. That was the person who Peter was, against his better judgment, falling in love with.

But Peter wasn’t Ms. Potts’ replacement. Nobody could be. Mr. Stark’s relationship with Peter was more like… a guy buying a pet to keep him company after getting his heart broken by an actual human.

That was it. Peter was a pet. A pet _project_ , but also a pet. Peter was the dog that always sat up, tale thumping, whenever his new master showed up. Peter was always ready for walkies, always ready for jaw-dropping tours around Stark Laboratories, always ready for rambling conversations about quantum mechanics, always ready to distract Mr. Stark from his misery.

And Mr. Stark was fond of him, but only as fond as anyone could be of a distraction. Of a—of a pet. A short-term pet.

Great. Now Peter was picturing collars. Specifically, Mr. Stark putting a collar on Peter and praising him for being a “good boy.”

Fuck. Peter had to stop this bullshit. His libido was already on high alert, popping boners left and right. These bizarre puppy play fantasies didn’t help. And he wasn’t even into that. Or at least, he’d thought he wasn’t. Shit.

 

* * *

 

When Mr. Stark next took him to the pornographically pristine labs at Stark Industries, Peter realized how different those labs were to Mr. Stark’s private laboratory in the basement of his mansion. Mr. Stark’s personal lab was greasy and chaotic and smoky and singed in at least fifty different places, with holes in the walls that were likely caused by projectiles, burns in the ceiling that were likely caused by explosives, and dents in the tables that were likely caused by hammers.

There was nothing sleek or refined about Mr. Stark’s own lab. It was informal. Casual. Intimate. It was like a peek inside the man’s mind, inside the messy jumble of ideas and equations that Mr. Stark was perpetually bringing to fruition.

Which was why it was easy to convince Mr. Stark to take Peter to his private lab after their excursion to Stark Industries. After all, if they were going to debate the benefits of fullerenes as coatings for exoskeletal shields, they should have that debate in front of said shields. Shields that hadn’t gotten past Mr. Stark’s rigorous testing and into the Stark Industries production line.

“C’mon in,” Mr. Stark said cheerfully, the doors to the lab swishing open, and Peter stepped in behind him.

Peter marveled, as he always did, at the sheer variety of machines populating a room that would’ve seemed immense if it weren’t so crowded.

Various contraptions—some with discernible purposes, some without—littered the ash-dusted floor. Equipment bubbled up and out of containers that were stained with oily smudges, and Peter noted that much of the older equipment was broken. It was as if Mr. Stark was too sentimental to get rid of anything, even if it was chipped, even if it didn’t quite function like it was supposed to, anymore.

Peter didn’t dwell on what that revealed about Mr. Stark’s relationship with Ms. Potts, and how Mr. Stark was still clinging to his memories of it. Maybe he couldn’t let go of them, like he couldn’t let go of any of his beloved, failed inventions. Or maybe Mr. Stark saw himself as broken, just like them, and was doing his best not to throw himself away.

That terrified Peter, the self-destructive edge that was always present in the lighthearted jibes Mr. Stark routinely directed at himself. That was the real reason he’d persuaded Mr. Stark to bring him here, just to fill this space with another voice, another person.

As if answering Peter’s unspoken question, Mr. Stark said: “Nobody’s been in here since Rhodey dropped by to test his flight suit, four months ago.”

Peter’s hated himself for the selfish pride that flickered to life inside him, pride that he was special enough to be here, where Mr. Stark hardly ever brought people. Or rather, where Mr. Stark only ever brought people who mattered to him. Few as they were. It was wrong of Peter to be proud at the price of Mr. Stark’s loneliness. “How’d the test go?”

Mr. Stark moved his hands in a wavy gesture. “So-so. He said the propulsion at launch gave him whiplash. Loved the look, though.”

Whiplash? Ouch. “What’s the suit’s peak velocity at launch?”

Mr. Stark smirked. “Guess.”

“Mach 6.”

“Nope.”

“Mach 7?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Mach 8,” Peter said disbelievingly.

“You got it.”

Mach 8 was the speed of a bullet leaving the U.S. Navy’s [most advanced railgun](https://www.wired.com/2010/12/video-navys-mach-8-railgun-obliterates-record/). To propel an entire suit weighing two-hundred-and-fifty pounds at that speed was… “That’s—that’s impossible!”

Mr. Stark quirked an eyebrow.

“Okay, not impossible,” Peter admitted. “But improbable.”

“I specialize in the improbable, baby.”

Peter coughed out a laugh. “Did you just imitate Austin Powers?”

Mr. Stark pouted. How he managed to appear childish at the age of forty-six, Peter had no clue. “Are you implying my mojo is in any way lacking, Peter?”

Peter went pink. His imagination immediately envisioned several scenarios involving Mr. Stark’s legendary mojo. “Let’s be honest,” Peter muttered. “You’re getting on in years.”

Mr. Stark chuckled, and sounded surprised at himself for chuckling. “You don’t take my shit, do you? Pepper didn’t, either.” And then Mr. Stark froze, features twisting.

Peter looked away, because he definitely wouldn’t want anybody looking at him when he was feeling like that. “Sorry,” Peter said.

“No, don’t. You have nothing to apologize for. Let alone being my ty—being what I need. Sometimes.”

“Oh?” Peter said teasingly, raising his eyes to Mr. Stark’s again. He couldn’t have almost heard what Mr. Stark had almost said, could he? It must be an auditory hallucination, the product of many nights of wishful thinking. “So you need somebody who takes your shit the rest of the time?”

“Nah. That’s what my lawyers are for. And my engineering staff. And my PR team.” Mr. Stark cleared his throat. “Speaking of my PR team, they reckon I’m due for my yearly orgy. Er, party.”

Peter blinked. “Don’t you have a party, like, every other week?”

“I mean _the_ party, Peter. Where I actually hang around to schmooze with the guests, and where I give speeches about greatness and heroism and technology.”

“Ah,” said Peter. “The annual shindig with the journalists snapping even more photos than normal?” Maybe he could go as a photographer for the Bugle. If Mr. Stark permitted him to lurk unobtrusively at the fringes of all the revelry. And if security didn’t kick him out.

“It’s the Iron Man party, yes. It’s my opportunity to make a statement as Iron Man, to reassure the politicians and the public that I’m not a maverick mad scientist out to change the world.”

“But you are a maverick mad scientist out to change the world,” Peter pointed out. “And you always panic the politicians more than you reassure them.”

“Hush, you. I’m not out to change the world _scarily_. Uh. Not much.”

Peter snorted.

“Would you like to attend?”

Peter choked.

“As my chief guest.”

“As your _what_?” Wasn’t that title reserved for Mr. Stark’s date?

“Only if you’re free,” Mr. Stark said hurriedly, like Peter’s social life was any more active than a graveyard at midnight. “I figured it’d be a terrific chance to showcase young talent, to talk about the Stark Industries grants and how they’re open to those with a gift and the determination to do something with it.”

Oh. It was a mentorship thing. Of course it was. Peter was an ideal showpiece for the grants program, as a poor wannabe scientist from a low-income background who’d made it into the most envied research institution outside of academia.

Peter was, in short, a success story. Why not flaunt him? Mr. Stark was an expert at flaunting. For him, it was practically an art. What differentiated Mr. Stark from a generic showman was that he used his charisma for good.

Besides, it would be easier for Mr. Stark to swan around with a charity case than it would be for him to ask a woman who wasn’t Ms. Potts to be his date, especially when it’d throw the press into a furor and would detract from the message Mr. Stark was trying to send.

Peter should be grateful that he was even getting to participate in the event, and doubly grateful that his example would encourage more potential candidates to apply for Stark grants.

“That’s amazing,” Peter said, because it was. “I’d love to be a part of that. Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark beamed. “Call me Tony.”

_Tony_.

Peter was so screwed. Figuratively, not literally. Because now that he had permission to call Mr. Stark by his first name, Peter wouldn’t be able resist calling that name, again and again, when he touched himself tonight.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)! I also run a blog for my [original gay fiction](http://dominiquefrost.tumblr.com/).


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